


meet me in the dark (i'll let you cut me open)

by brokentombstone



Series: intentions of gold (with my plans) [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x03 au, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Political Jon Snow, Smart Starks, battle of winterfell au, political jon and sansa, season 8 AU, yes together as in they are being political together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24814510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokentombstone/pseuds/brokentombstone
Summary: “We have to protect ourselves,” Sansa breathes. They’re too close and she looks to his lips, set in a firm line as he watches her intently, “She won’t be easy to defeat.”Jon pauses for a few breaths and then almost inaudibly, “Sansa, the Gods fashioned us for Winter. Daenerys was born in a Summer storm and grew up in the heat of Essos; she knows nothing of our winds that cut like ice, of our pack that has prepared for this fight for years now.”--Wolves howl. Dragons burn. The Night King threatens all they hold dear.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: intentions of gold (with my plans) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668775
Comments: 22
Kudos: 178





	meet me in the dark (i'll let you cut me open)

**Author's Note:**

> damn part three! i hope you guys enjoy, as usual I recommend reading the first two parts to understand this, though I suppose it can stand alone...

It’s a frenzy.

All around her people move, preparing for the battle, for the endless night they have prepared for weeks and months to endure and Sansa can’t find it in herself to be scared. All she needs is to see Jon, to see him one last time before it all begins. (To see him one last time maybe forever, the thought comes, unbidden). 

She half runs through Winterfell’s halls and sees familiar faces all around her. She doesn’t have time to register them. Catching glimpses of expressions she’s grown accustomed to and ones she fears she won’t have the chance to see again. It’s all happening so fast, she had expected more time, she needed more time. She hadn’t expected it to be like this, so suffocating. 

She’d been running for nearly ten minutes but her slow and reminiscent evening with Theon felt like it happened hours ago, not mere moments. She hadn’t wanted to leave him, not really, but she knew that it wasn’t something she could avoid. She only hoped that he would remain standing come the dawn. 

“Sansa!”

The shout stops her in her tracks, she’s out of breath, gasping for air when she reels and sees it’s Arya. Before she can say anything her sister grabs her by her arm and yanks her into the nearby chamber, a disused maids room by the looks of it. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Arya shouts as soon as she has the door closed. 

Sansa, finally having caught her breath, regards Arya. Her sister is ready for battle. A new weapon, freshly forged, at her hip as well as her handy Needle. Her armor is sparse enough to give her free movement but still has enough durability to protect her, at least Sansa hopes it will. 

“What for?” Sansa asks, and she doesn’t intend it to sound so accusing but she can tell by Arya’s raised eyebrows that she is being a bit gruff given the circumstances.

“I merely thought we would all have a proper goodbye,” Arya says, a bit hurt. 

Sansa heaves a sigh. In her need, her desperation to get to Jon, she had put aside Arya and Bran. There was no excuse for her behaviour but at the same time she could hardly apologize without explaining the whole situation. 

“Of course,” Sansa says, “I was going to find Jon myself, we can go together.”

There must be a false note in Sansa’s voice because suddenly Arya is regarding her the same way that Sansa saw her do when she had been skeptical about her allegiances with Littlefinger and Jon had been leagues away. 

Arya raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve been different since he returned,” Arya muses.

Sansa wants to scream that they don’t have time, that a battle is at their door, but she knows that it is not yet so close that she can’t indulge Arya for a moment. 

“It’s not Jon’s presence that changed me, it is merely our new Queen’s,” Sansa says evasively. 

Arya starts to walk, circling Sansa like she would with her prey. Sansa doesn’t feel nervous though, she knows that Arya doesn’t mean it in harm the way she might once have. No, she is doing it in jest, just trying to find a way under her skin. 

“Aye,” Arya says when she reaches the other side of the room, “I don’t doubt that Daenerys Targaryen has something to do with your change in behaviour.”

Sansa only studies Arya with a look of feigned indifference.

“Although I can’t help but wonder if your reception would have been half as icy if she wasn’t taking our _brother_ to bed,” Arya says cuttingly. 

A beat. Sansa doesn’t speak and can’t help but notice the emphasis that Arya places on the word brother. Her eyes are dancing at Sansa, daring her to contradict the implication. Then Sansa finds her voice. 

“Say what you mean Arya,” Sansa says, her voice becoming a bit dangerous, a bit unchained, “Daenerys Targaryen threatens all we hold dear. I am hardly expected to welcome her with open arms.”

Arya stares at her sister for several seconds. Then she takes a step forward, her mouth dropping open a bit. 

“You love him,” Arya’s voice is half a whisper. 

The two sisters, so different yet so similar, are caught in a moment. It is as if the Night King fades away for an expanse of several seconds, nothing can touch them here. Every single knowing look and brief moment of recognition in Arya’s eyes floods back into Sansa’s mind. And Sansa hates it, hates how Arya can read her like this. There is simply no point in lying, not now at the end of the world. 

Sansa gives a curt nod and averts her eyes. 

Several seconds pass and then to her surprise Arya is right in front of her and gripping her hand, having moved completely silently across the room. Her grip tightens when Sansa flinches. 

“That only strengthens your resolve to fight,” Arya says.

Sansa finds her eyes welling up with tears.

“Go find him,” Arya continues and starts to usher her to the door, “I’ll find Bran and give you time. Be quick.”

Sansa pauses, “Arya I–”

Arya just gives her a shake of her head and her hand another squeeze. 

She whispers, “He has never gazed as fondly at the Dragon Queen as he has you, darling sister. Go. I don’t have to love the idea to give you this gift tonight, when we all may be dead in the morning.”

Sansa sniffs and wipes away at her tears. Thinking how she has been so lucky to have a sister such as this, it is unfair that they have been reunited for such a short time. She turns to the door and just before she pulls it open she turns back. 

“Arya,” She starts and her sister turns to her, eyes open in curiosity, “If you have a chance, find Gendry. You deserve that, as much as any of us.”

It is something she has suspected for a while now, something that only a sister sees, as Arya has seen in her. Their ability to know the other’s heart, the other’s secrets, even with the years that separated them. A scarlet blush crosses Arya’s face and there seems to be something her sister doesn’t say to her in the silence but she nods and Sansa is rushing from the room. Her heart is warm and beating hard as she seeks out Jon.

* * *

Sansa finds him in his chambers, surprisingly. And when she crashes through the doorway he is just picking up his sword to attach it to his belt and leave the room. He drops it with a loud clatter when he sees her standing there. There is no moonlight in this long night to bathe them, only the flicker of a dying fire that Jon hadn’t bothered to stoke anymore. 

His head turns sharply to hers, and he lets out a heavy sigh.

With no preamble he lays an unfortunate truth at her feet, the last thing she needs before they’re about to go to war.

“Daenerys knows about Rhaegar and Lyanna,” Jon says and looks to the ground. 

Even in her shock of his reverberating revelation she notices how Jon calls them by their first names, he doesn’t say his parents. It pulls at her heart strings, makes something primal inside her ache for a better life, for Jon, for both of them. 

Sansa shuts the door firmly behind her and crosses the room to stand a few feet from Jon, who still isn’t meeting her eyes. 

“Why?” Sansa asks, and it is truly all she can think about, what is it that could have made Jon reveal this when he had been so dead set against it. 

Jon lets out another sigh and turns his back to her, gazing down at the coals of the fire. 

“She threatened you,” Jon says quietly, “She came to find me after Theon arrived. She was seething about him pledging to House Stark. She said that she doesn’t have that kind of love here, that you are the only thing standing between her and Northern devotion.”

Sansa scoffs and takes a step toward him, “Is that really what she thinks? That it is me and my manipulations that makes the Northern lords despise everything she represents?”

Jon shoots her a dark look. 

“She does,” Jon says, “It doesn’t matter that it’s false, it’s what she believes. I had to change her focus. Now she’s mad at me instead of you, thinking about how I probably want to steal her throne, challenge her claim.”

Jon turns back to the fire and Sansa takes the last hesitant steps towards him, closing the gap and laying a hand on his back between his shoulder blades. 

“Jon you didn’t have to do that,” Sansa whispers, choking back tears for the second time this night already, she fears they won’t be the last. 

She sees him clench his fists. 

“I told you I won’t lose you Sansa,” Jon says, a raw note striking his words, “I’ll do whatever is necessary to keep her from you. Lie, conceal, cheat. It’s what we have to do now.”

Jon turns to her then, a hard blazing look in his eyes and Sansa holds her breath. 

“We have to protect ourselves,” Sansa breathes. They’re too close and she looks to his lips, set in a firm line as he watches her intently, “She won’t be easy to defeat.”

Jon pauses for a few breaths and then almost inaudibly, “Sansa, the Gods fashioned us for Winter. Daenerys was born in a Summer storm and grew up in the heat of Essos; she knows nothing of our winds that cut like ice, of our pack that has prepared for this fight for years now.”

Sansa watches him set his jaw and then he is pressing himself to her, taking her face in his hands. It is sudden, seeming to happen in the space of a second, but it is not unexpected or unpleasant. She expects that they have been teetering here on the edge of something since before Jon even left. 

Jon holds them there for several seconds, breathing in each other’s air, their faces close. 

“Sansa,” Jon lets out the word in a small gasp as she clutches her hands into the back of his cloak. 

And Sansa’s voice is almost a moan, “Jon.”

Their lips come together at once. Tentative at first, moving slowly, almost unsure of each other. Though they cling to each other like they are poised to die come the morning. (And Sansa has the clarity to think that they very well could be). 

The kiss transforms. It becomes a hunger, awakening deep inside her, vibrating in her core and humming in her bones. She tastes him on her tongue as he works her mouth open, the husky taste of smoke mixed with a lingering aftertaste of ale, and somehow, he tastes too like the cold, like he seeps ice into her very body. She wonders what she tastes like to him. 

Jon manages to maneuver them backwards and Sansa’s back presses into the brick wall. His hands are everywhere and her skin burns wherever they touch. She swears her lips bruise with each new brush, their kiss becoming something like a well choreographed battle as they learn each other anew. 

When she can barely breathe she detaches herself, still holding tight to Jon as if she lets him go he will never return. 

“She can’t know about this,” it’s the first thing Sansa says, panting hard and she watches as Jon closes his eyes, presses his forehead against her own. 

She wishes that it were easier, that they could just live and love in peace, that even in her elation she didn’t have to think about the consequences of their actions. 

Jon pulls back, still holding onto her and looks so earnestly at her that it makes her want to keep him here forever, safe in his room. They don’t have to speak to communicate, she realizes this now, they know each other well enough. 

“I won’t take her to bed again,” Jon says and it sounds like a thousand other promises. 

Sansa wants to laugh, she wants to shout in glee because she knows this is one he will keep. But she just smiles coyly. 

“Simply tell her it’s because she’s your Aunt, if she tries again,” Sansa smirks. 

And Jon shudders. She thinks if anyone else said it he would snap, but because it is her he is able to brush it off, humour is the only thing that can keep them afloat when their lives hang in the balance. 

Sansa leans forward and brings her lips to his ears. 

“You’re mine Jon Snow,” she whispers and then adds with heat, “Jon _Stark_.”

And suddenly she wishes they had more time because she feels him half hard through his layers of armour and she knows they won’t have time, that Bran and Arya are probably on their way right now. 

But Jon kisses her once more, though it tastes more like goodbye than it has any right to. Sansa feels her heart breaking even as she tries to keep them close together, tries to make them one. Because as she has thought too often tonight, they could all be dead in a matter of hours. 

He parts their lips, but draws her closer. 

“I have loved you endlessly Sansa, since I realized what it was… I have hidden it away in shame,” Jon says, “But when I learned that we were cousins. Well, even then I didn’t think you would ever return my feelings. I can’t describe how happy it makes me that you do.”  
  
Sansa keeps her eyes closed, her back still pushed into the wall, Jon in her space. 

“You have untethered something wild in my heart Jon. It will not go quietly now,” Sansa says, a smile creeping in, “I love you too. I think I always have.”

Sansa opens her eyes and they remain there for a few more quiet moments, hidden away from everyone in this last hour before the fighting will start. They don’t bother to disentangle themselves until a quick and impatient knock sounds at the door. Even then they hold each other for one more second, entwined in an embrace just for the two of them.

Sansa extracts herself and heads straight for the door. She hears Jon grabbing his sword behind her. She pulls it open and sees Arya pushing Bran in towards them. Something passes between her and Arya, an unspoken understanding as she glances at Jon’s still rumpled state. Sansa knows that Arya’s approval has more to do with them being on the brink of a war than really liking the idea, it is something they will have to discuss in the future she is sure, but she won’t fight it tonight. 

The four of them stand in a loose circle and Sansa is suddenly very aware that they are all going out into the fighting tonight, even Bran, and that this may be the last time the surviving Starks are all together, one last time, one last memory to cling to in the dead of night. Sansa represses a shiver. 

“So this is it,” Arya manages to conceal any anxiety from her voice but Sansa knows her sister well enough by this point.

“We don’t have much time,” Bran responds and he glances out the window at the eternal darkness. 

Sansa is about to say something along the lines of how much she loves them all and how she is so happy they are all back in Winterfell, but Jon’s words come first. 

“We’re going to survive this. I can’t let myself believe anything else,” Jon says and looks at each of them, an expression of disbelief that they are even all here flits across his face. 

His optimism, positivity, and hope all startle Sansa. Jon has never been one for words that mean precious little, not on the eve of a battle. (Sansa knows this all too well, recalling the Battle of the Bastards with clarity). But his voice tells her that he really does believe what he said, at least for the moment. 

Bran turns to each of them and while his face clouds with some sort of uncertainty when his eyes find her own, he speaks steadily. 

“Yes, I think we just might.”

Sansa breathes a sigh of relief. She knows what Bran sees is subject to change, that it is not a certainty. But if he thinks they have even a chance, Sansa will take it as it comes. 

Though Bran’s eyes continue to linger on her as if he is trying to decipher a complicated book and it only serves to unnerve her. She speaks to break the discomfort. 

“Be careful, all of you,” Sansa warns, her voice just breaking on the last syllable. 

She feels Jon’s hand come to find her back. Arya gives her a sad smile and Bran looks impassive at her plea. 

“Mother and Father would come back to kill us if we didn’t at least try to make it out of this alive,” Arya says and gives a short laugh.

Jon’s hand stills and Sansa sucks in a breath. _Father’s ghost would come back and haunt me._ The words are but an echo now. But they both remember. The eerie similarity is a bit too much given the circumstances. 

Arya’s eyes dart between the two of them, sensing the change in them but she doesn’t comment. The moment passes and she is grateful for it. 

“We have to go,” Bran says, getting them back on track, “People will be wondering where we are.”

An uncomfortable silence holds them all as they hesitate to break this moment, to go out into the unknown, unsure if they will get back to this. 

“Jon take me to Theon, I have to get to the Godswood as soon as possible,” Bran says and his voice takes on a quality she hasn’t heard before.

It’s almost as if Bran is very tired and needing to lie down. He seems strained. Before Sansa can comment though Jon is moving to come behind his chair, his hand falling from Sansa’s back. He spares one last look at Arya and Sansa. 

“Go to the ramparts, and when the fighting starts, get out of there Sansa. Go to the Great Hall with the others, it is where we will make the last stand if we have to,” Jon directs the last to her specifically, she almost wants to roll her eyes. 

They had decided on the hall after it had been pointed out that the crypts were full of dead Starks. It made sense, but Sansa couldn’t stop her mind from going to the most recent addition. _Rickon._

“Promise me,” Jon all but begs and it feels too intimate for the moment. 

Sansa can only give a curt nod, feeling as if a stone has lodged itself in her throat. 

“And stay _safe_ Arya. I won’t try to convince you to stay out of the fighting but don’t be needlessly reckless,” Jon chastises. 

Arya makes some quip that Sansa doesn’t quite hear and then all too quickly Jon and Bran are leaving the room.

“We’ll see each other again, when it’s all over,” Bran calls and the door is being shut.

It all happened so fast, Sansa thinks, she didn’t even hug them one last time. Time itself seems to be pressing forward endlessly. Jon’s eyes had caught her until the end but then there was nothing more she could do to protect him, not from this, not from the battle he has been chasing for years. 

She wants to collapse, the fighting hasn’t even begun and she is drained. But Arya is there suddenly, right at her side. 

“It’ll be okay,” Arya says as she supports Sansa, “Let’s go up to the ramparts.”

Sansa lets Arya lead her out of the room.

* * *

It feels like days have passed while it hasn’t even been an hour. Sansa and Arya have been up on the ramparts directing people, making sure things are in place and then overseeing the first waves of the dead as they came crashing towards Winterfell. 

Sansa tried not to let her fear show, but she is not made for the battlefield. She is made for quiet rooms with hidden meanings, twisted lies, and devious deceptions lurking in every turn of phrase and under everyone’s overly pleasant smiles. This brutal and harrowing landscape of dark drudgery is enough to make her wish for the naive innocence of her youth, something she rarely longs for anymore. 

She can’t focus well on what’s happening in the battle, but she knows that Dothraki have been lost in hordes, that they have already died, namelessly and pointlessly if the rest of them don’t survive the night at the end of this. Everyone around her is frantic and she knows suddenly that this is not where she is needed. Arya on the other hand is in the thick of it, conferring with archers and talking with Davos quickly. 

Sansa is about to make her leave when the sky lights up. Dragonfire, everywhere. It dances its way across the pitch black cloak that has descended on them, that which seems never ending. And while Sansa hadn’t been overly impressed with the dragons upon first meeting them, she must admit now that they are something to behold. Her mouth drops open in a numb sort of shock. 

Looking around she realizes that the rest of those up top with her have paused as well, to take in the dragons that they thought long gone from the world. Sansa realizes something.

“Jon,” She breathes, only to herself. 

But once again, Arya is at her side. 

“He knows what he is doing, Sansa,” Arya promises her and she feels Arya take her hand, giving her a squeeze of reassurance. 

“He never should’ve gone to Dragonstone,” Sansa says, almost mourning a different sort of future. 

Arya only looks at her sadly. 

“If they save us…” Arya trails off.

“I don’t know that it will be worth it even then,” Sansa says, maybe too bitterly as the dragons continue to wreak their havoc, “After all, what will be left to save?”

It’s not a question either of them are ready to answer but Arya drops her hand. She regrets her words. There is so much to save, her future with Jon. Bran, Arya, Theon, Brienne, all those she loves dearly. Sansa can’t peel her eyes from the skies though, she doesn’t realize that the dead are still drawing ever nearer. 

“You have to go Sansa, now, before it’s too late. Barricade the doors for as long as you can,” Arya says firmly now. 

Sansa finally rips her eyes away from the dragons. Finding Arya looking too resolved, it takes her a moment to remember that Arya is in fact the younger sister. And she hates how her words sound too much like a goodbye, like she knows they’re already losing. 

“Come with me,” Sansa says suddenly, one desperate plea though she knows it will land on deaf ears. 

Arya’s eyes glisten slightly and she sniffs, “That’s not me, Sansa. You know that.”

Her words are unbearably sad, they pierce Sansa in a way she can’t quite articulate. She has tried to protect those she loves for so long now, and all she can do here is let others protect her. It is humbling in ways she hadn’t participated. 

She clutches Arya then, and she finds strength to carry on in her embrace. Whatever happens she will always be thankful for having Arya come back to her. 

Sansa pulls away and turns to leave, unable to say any parting words that will feel too final but Arya calls to her. 

“Sansa wait!” 

Sansa spins back around and Arya is holding out a dagger to her. 

“Just in case,” Arya says and gives a bit of a wry smile. 

Sansa only looks at the dagger, “I’ve no clue how to use it Arya, that’s not _me._ ”

She echoes what Arya just said to her but she reaches for the dagger regardless. Arya barks a laugh. 

“Stick them with the pointy end,” she says as Sansa takes the dagger by the handle. 

Sansa looks at Arya, perplexed at what is so funny about the words. 

“Something Jon told me once, ages ago,” Arya explains, “I’ve found it to be sound advice.”

And before Sansa can respond Davos is calling to Arya and she’s disappearing back into the night air, her laugh still lingering in the space between them. 

For one ferocious moment, Sansa is utterly alone on the ramparts despite being surrounded by commotion. She looks up to take in the dragons one last time. Dreadful beasts she thinks. And then remembers that Jon is on the back of one as she stands here on the ground. Her heart flutters and clenches at the same time. 

She is walking down the stairs when the thought strikes her. 

(If they kill the Night King’s dragon, but the battle is still lost, there is nothing stopping Daenerys from fleeing on her own dragon. Leaving them all to die. She has an out. And maybe Jon could follow her. It isn’t a happy thought, but it gives Sansa hope that maybe they aren’t all doomed on this heartless and frigid night at the end of the world).

* * *

Sansa opens the doors to the hall to find only more chaos. There are women shouting, babies crying, and nobody doing much of anything to soothe them. Both Tyrion and Varys look at a loss in the middle of the room, completely out of their element. Even those Sansa might think could do something, Gilly and Missandei, are looking at each other helplessly. 

Sansa takes a deep breath, closes her eyes for the briefest of moments, and slips into the roll of Lady of Winterfell. Suddenly feeling more at ease than she has all night. 

“Who wants to hear a song?” Sansa’s voice comes out clear and crisp over the cacophony of sounds and they all hush at her unexpected entrance. 

Every eye in the room is on her. She takes it as a resounding yes. 

“Those of you able, start barricading the door. The rest of you, gather around,” Sansa orders, “Does anyone know the song _Jenny of Oldstones_?”

There are a few more seconds of quiet as people gather in close and a few go to start barricading the door as she asked. Finally, a young girl, she must be about five, pipes up. 

“Isn’t that a scary song?” the girl asks her with a bit of trepidation. 

Sansa strides over to the bench and sits down, smoothing out her skirts. 

“Why no, not scary I don’t think. Melancholy maybe, that means both happy and sad, which can be confusing. It is about a woman remembering all that she has lost, but I like to think she finds strength in that remembering,” Sansa explains. 

The children around her seem to be nodding and the adults in the room seem to be looking at her quite impressed with the control she has taken. 

From the door that is being barricaded, Lord Tyrion speaks. 

“Lady Sansa has always been a clever one,” he says and throws her a gracious smile which she returns minutely. 

She turns back to those around her. 

“I’ll start the song, and join in on the parts you know okay?” Sansa says and there are several nods around her. 

She opens her mouth and the song seems to fall out of her. It has been years since Sansa sang like this. There hadn’t been reason since before they left Winterfell. 

But as her voice starts to ring out, an even more pronounced hush descends on the room. And none of the noise from the battle seems to penetrate the room while she sings. 

As Sansa sings she thinks about Jenny. She has to stop herself from crying several times over. 

_The ones she had lost, and the ones she had found. And the ones who had loved her most. Ones who’d been gone for so very long she couldn’t remember their names._

Sansa can’t ignore the way the words mirror her own life, how all those dear to her had been stripped one by one and how she had nearly forgotten what having a family had meant. How it had taken getting back to Winterfell to give her that. She had found Theon, and together he had helped her in finding Jon. Finding what remained of her family scattered in pieces. And in Jon she had remade her home, but then he had left her in Winterfell. Only for Bran and Arya to return as if from the dead, and bringing all their ghosts with them. 

She continues to sing and her voice catches on the next words. 

_Spun away all her sorrow and pain._

It was Jon. It had only ever been Jon who had been able to do that, with all his promises, his never ending fight for her and their devotion to one another. She had transformed, it had been happening for a while when she found him, but being with him, she had changed. They had changed each other, and maybe, just maybe they could learn to live without their pasts haunting them at every turn. 

It’s then that Sansa realizes that the others haven’t joined in singing with her. They seem mesmerized by her voice, she knew she had a nice singing voice but it was a bit much. She is almost embarrassed but she doesn’t falter as she starts to take in the awed expressions around her. They’re hanging on her every breath. 

_She never wanted to leave._

She sings out the refrain several times over. And she can’t help but think of how she wanted to stay suspended with Jon, held in his arms, with the dying embers of a fire in their chambers. She wanted to stay there forever, she knew suddenly how Jenny had felt all along, why she longed for things that could never be. 

_High in the halls of the Kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts._

Sansa sings out the final words and there is a resounding silence afterwards. She feels a chill go through her, she doesn’t want to be in the halls of the Kings who have gone, she wants the King with her, _her_ King. Jon. And she doesn’t want to dance with her ghosts, she wants to dance with those she loves most. 

Just then, a hesitant applause breaks out amongst the children and then the adults are joining in. Sansa figures she must first look shocked at their reaction but then she lets herself slide into a smile. Then she bows her head in a humble embarrassment but also to hide the tears welling up in her eyes. Because if anyone had looked into the windows of the Great Hall that night they would’ve seen Jenny of Oldstones reborn in one Sansa Stark.

* * *

The next hours are long. Sansa had led everyone in several more songs, getting them to join in and eventually leaving them to lead their own. The children were content and the mothers were soothed. It left those that remained to worry. It meant that with Gilly preoccupied with the children, Sansa found herself with Tyrion, Varys, and Missandei. 

She had been persuaded to take a glass of wine while the battle raged outside. But she was quick to remember Cersei’s drunken stupor during the Battle of Blackwater and she was not eager to repeat something like that. So she merely sipped. They heard great roaring outside and clashing swords, but they were largely oblivious. Sansa found an easy peace with that. (Though she occasionally padded her belt where she had looped the dagger Arya had given her). 

“That was a beautiful song, My Lady,” Missandei says, “I have not heard of it before.”

“Thank you, Lady Missandei,” Sansa replies, “It is quite well known in the North.”

Sansa knows it is  _ Jenny of Oldstones _ which she speaks of, she had noticed Missandei listening with great interest. 

“It is about Jenny and her husband, Prince Duncan Targaryen,” Tyrion says through his wine, “He married her against the wishes of his family. It is quite the romantic notion I suppose.”

Tyrion eyes Sansa and she keeps her face impassive. She has no doubt that Tyrion would like nothing more than for Jon to marry his Queen, despite the wishes of his family. But Sansa knows, knows that if they all survive this, nothing of the sort will ever happen. She takes another sip of her wine. 

“Why yes,” Sansa says and looks at the smallfolk, “It always comes down to duty and love in the end. Which will win out when we play the game of thrones?”

Sansa speaks vaguely, in hypotheticals. She notices Missandei’s brow furrows in confusion and Varys stares at her intently. It is, of course, Tyrion who speaks though. 

He laughs, “Well for highborns it is unfortunately often duty. Take our marriage for instance…”   


Tyrion gives her an amused look and Sansa has to conceal a look of disgust. She does not recall it as fondly as he apparently does, but she decides to remain coolly collected. 

“Our marriage was always destined for flames, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa says without looking at him, “Putting everything else aside, your family killing mine and all of that. Your own current divided allegiances would’ve taken their toll…”

Tyrion gulps at her toeing the line of treason but Varys remains intrigued by her gall. Missandei alone seems outraged. 

“Queen Daenerys is out there risking her life for all of us,” Missandei says, hostile suddenly. 

Oh, how quick devotees are swayed, Sansa muses. 

“We all risk our lives in different ways Lady Missandei. You would be wise to remember it too, just because we don’t draw weapons doesn’t mean that we are not of use,” Sansa says and stands up, intending to find different conversation partners. 

Just then, there are several large booms that seem to come from right outside. Everyone freezes except Sansa. 

“Get the children to the back of the room!” Sansa calls out, “It is likely nothing but just to be prepared.”

As everyone starts to move and Sansa steps towards the door to investigate the noise, the booming comes again and the door is knocked down, falling at her feet. 

Sansa only has a chance to let out a yelp before they are being overrun by wights.

* * *

Sansa’s brow is slick with sweat, she is panting hard. They had managed to get the door closed again, but some thirty or forty wights had still made it inside and they are everywhere. There were a few older men assigned with guarding them who had stepped up, but really the numbers were not there. Already the floor had been slicked in blood and there were people yelling everywhere. 

Some had flown to the inner hallways, but there was no guarantee that the fighting was lesser there. 

Sansa makes her way through the room and she can’t help but feel that this is the end. She feels a profound sense of loss. For all she knows everyone is lost. Arya slain in the cold, Bran never being able to destroy the Night King, and Jon fallen from his dragon. Who knows of the others? Brienne, Theon, Davos, Podrick? Anyone who meant something to her could be bleeding out or long dead at this point and their safe space has been overrun with wights. 

Then Sansa sees a wight converging on a shadowy corner of the room and something drives her to follow it. When she comes up behind it she realizes that it has cornered the same girl from before who spoke up about Jenny of Oldstones. 

Sansa doesn’t hesitate.  _ Stick them with the pointy end.  _ Thank the Gods for Arya and Jon. She draws the dagger for the first time and comes down hard in the back of the wight’s neck. It squelches and wet blood like liquid coats her hands, slick and hot. The wight writhes and drops to the ground. Sansa doesn’t have time to process it, she just grabs the girl and sweeps her up. 

“It’s okay, it’s all okay,” Sansa soothes the girl who is crying in terror. 

Sansa takes in the chaos around them and suddenly she is running face first into Missandei who looks just as frantic as Sansa feels. She throws the girls into Missandei’s arms. 

“Gather as many children as you can and meet me at the back door of the room, a few women as well! Hurry!” Sansa shouts over the noise and Missandei only nods, setting her jaw and she is off into the fight. 

Sansa does the same. For some five to ten minutes she gathers children, bringing them to the back of the room where Missandei has instructed some capable women to wait for them. They stand outside now awaiting further instructions. 

Sansa goes back for one more though, one little boy. He can’t be more than three years old. Vaguely she hears someone shout, Missandei she thinks. She must be six feet from the boy when the wight descends. Ripping his head off in one fell swoop. 

Sansa screams.

It is visceral and ravaging, and the reason why she doesn’t expect it when a wight stabs her straight in the thigh. She doesn’t even have time to register the pain before the wight is exploding, having been stabbed through the middle. 

On the other side of the falling wight is Missandei, holding a short sword uncertainly. 

“Thank you,” Sansa chokes out, trying to ignore the blood pouring from her wound. She doesn’t think it is too serious, “We have to get them out.”

Missandei and her make their way to the back of the room and shut the door behind them, drowning out the ongoing battle. 

Sansa heaves a breath but Missandei starts.    
  
“Lords Tyrion and Varys?” Missandei asks. 

“We don’t have time, I didn’t see them,” Sansa says. 

Missandei only nods, her face scrunching up in concern. She is composing herself remarkably well given the circumstances. 

Sansa looks at their group. To her relief one of the women that Missandei had grabbed was Gilly. Thank the Gods. 

“Gilly,” Sansa says, “Start leading this group up to my chambers, careful now. We don’t know where anyone might be lurking. Missandei and I will take up the rear position.”

Gilly gives her a firm nod and starts to get the children to fall in line behind her. 

Sansa catches her breath as everyone files down the hall. She takes in the cut. It isn’t deep but as she pulls up her skirts she sees it is still bleeding. She rips a piece of fabric from her bodice and goes to tie it but Missandei’s hand finds her. 

“Let me,” Missandei says and goes to work, “I want to apologize for before, I shouldn’t have snapped like that about Daenerys, I understand your position. You’ve fought bravely in here, even before the wights descended, you composed yourself with grace.”

Sansa is taken aback. 

“Thank you. But I don’t think I’ve been entirely fair to you either. You have been with her for years now. I spoke without thinking, I’m sorry,” Sansa says and finds that she is actually honest about it. She likes this woman, maybe having fought a pack of undead does that to you, “And I would’ve been killed back there if not for you. So thank you again.”

Missandei ties off the fabric, gives her a small smile and gestures for Sansa to lead the way. The children can still be heard though they must be several turns ahead now. 

Sansa and Missandei take the first turn and are immediately chest to chest with several tall and intimidating men. Neither of them even have time to react, they are rooted to the spot. Sansa thinks desperately about the dagger that will do her no good here whatsoever. It doesn’t take Sansa a moment to realize that these are not their men. 

“These them?” one man asks. 

“Tall redhead with a wolf sigil. Brown skinned girl with the Targaryen garb? It has to be them,” another replies and his voice sounds oily. 

Sansa’s palms sweat. And she can feel Missandei trembling beside her. 

Suddenly Sansa sees a shadow moving behind them, just as something heavy comes down on their heads she has one clear thought. 

_ Cersei, it has to be Cersei.  _

* * *

Arya stands up but her legs are still shaky. It is as if the world has stopped. The Night King, impossibly, improbably, is dead. At their hands. Her and Jon, Theon and Bran, all working together, they had taken him down. 

Arya had been a blur in the battle. She barely remembers it now. She knows at one point her and Gendry were fighting back to back, Gods she hopes he survived. Sansa’s words still ringing in her head, when she had unwittingly come from Gendry’s bed chamber, still unsure about her feelings, was it just physical or something more she had wondered. But she wasn’t unsure now and she knew she needed to tell him. 

But after getting lost in the fighting and coming across the Red Woman, she had known she had a greater purpose to serve in the battle. She had nearly run face first into Jon though, despite her attempt to sneak to the Godswood. 

“Where are you going?” Jon shouted, his voice hoarse and already looking worse for wear. 

Arya had startled, “How are you here? You’re supposed to be on Rhaegal!”

Jon just looked at her impatiently, “Plans changed.”

Arya had just kept walking, letting Jon follow behind. 

“We have to get to Bran,” she had said as they snuck out of the castle, “You need to trust me.”

Jon had grabbed her arm just once.

“Arya, wait.”

He held her in place, surprisingly strong. 

“Sansa?”

Jon’s eyes looked desperate, pleading, and half hopeful. Arya’s teeth clanged together as her jaw tightened. 

“She went off to the Great Hall as intended. If we have any hope though we need to move now,” Arya had said and whipped around, not waiting to see if Jon’s face fell at her lack of assurance. 

Arya couldn’t think about Sansa then. But now, in the aftermath, her sister’s face seemed to swell behind her eyes. If the Night King was dead then the rest of them had fallen, the castle would be safe. And if all had gone to plan Sansa would be well on her way to leading the survivors to their recovery plans. Caring for the wounded and collecting the dead. She could wait a few minutes longer, but Arya was impatient, something was burrowing in her mind, just a slight sense of unease. 

She looks around at the devastation of the Godswood. Bran is still unconscious in his chair. Arya turns to go to him when she hears Jon. 

“Theon. Theon, please,” Jon’s voice is breaking as he kneels at the head of a boy who had become a brother to all of them.

Only to turn betrayer, and then brother once again. Reclaiming his place by protecting Sansa, helping her get home, and pledging himself to them all once again. The trust he had broken in Robb repaid a hundred times over. And now he is taking his final breaths. 

Arya rushes to their sides. All around them are many fallen Ironborn. Some survive still. But it is only Theon they can grieve for now. Arya falls to her knees beside Jon, he is grabbing at Theon’s front, trying to find the source of bleeding. But Arya had seen it, she knows it is futile. The Night King had pierced him right through. It is a miracle he lives even now. His face is pale but his eyes flutter open. 

“Theon,” Jon says again and Arya lays a comforting hand at his back. 

Theon, for one last moment becomes the boy from their youth again, and a seam splitting smile breaks out onto his face. He is a bit delirious with the blood loss. 

“We did it,” Theon wheezes. 

And Jon reaches for Theon’s hand, seeming to accept what is unfolding in front of them now. 

“Aye, we did it Theon. And we couldn’t have done any of it without you,” Jon thanks him. 

And it’s true. The final battle had been fierce, something out of a legend, a song passed down for generations. The three of them worked in tandem as if they had trained for years. Bran shouting instructions at them. Arya and Theon keeping the Night King occupied and Theon diving in front of Bran when he had nearly gotten too close, taking the blow that would kill him now. 

_ You are a good man.  _ It was what Bran had said before. Theon wasn’t a good man though, Arya thinks. Theon was the best man. Better than they deserved. And he deserved more than to die here under a Godswood tree on blood streaked snow more red than white. Arya blinks back tears. 

Theon’s sacrifice had given them what they needed. Arya attacked the Night King, going beat for beat, until he had her by the neck. And there had been a moment when she thought herself lost as well, that he would choke her out. But Jon had been there. Delivering the killing blow as she thinks she always knew he would. 

It had been a team effort. But the team hadn’t made it through unscathed. The Iron price, Arya thinks bitterly.

Just then Theon takes in a rasping breath and Arya knows it is almost over. His eyes find them both though somehow and he has one final burst of strength. 

“Sansa,” Theon rasps, “Tell her. Tell her thank you. Thank her and tell her. Tell her she deserves happiness, happiness and a life full of love. Tell her.”

Theon has blood bubbling at his mouth at this point as he desperately pleads with them. Arya can’t help it, she lets out a choked sob, the tears flowing freely now. And she brings a hand down to Theon’s face as his eyes flutter close, his breaths are shallow now. 

“We’ll tell her Theon. I promise,” Arya says through her tears, “She was so proud of you Theon. So proud of all you became.”

“She said she couldn’t have done it without you Theon, we’ll always owe you for that. For all you have given us,” Jon says and Arya doesn’t have to look at him to know he is crying too. 

Theon’s life slips out between one breath and the next as Arya and Jon’s words die in the clearing. But he has the ghost of a smile on his lips as they say their final words about Sansa. And oh, Sansa. She will grieve horribly for him. She will mourn forever that she wasn’t with him at the end. But they will be there for her, they have to be. 

Jon and Arya cling to each other as they stay rooted beside Theon’s body for a few more moments. Not quite willing to accept that he is gone, but Jon brings them back. 

“Bran,” he says and it is decided. 

They both move together back to where Bran is unconscious on his chair. But the steady rise and fall of his chest tells them that he will be fine. At least Arya hopes that is what it means. She doesn’t know what she will do otherwise. They both kneel beside him. 

“He’ll need some time I think,” Arya says. 

Jon only nods, searching their brother’s face for any sign of life. 

Arya is struck by that prick of dread again and she stands suddenly. 

“Stay here with Bran,” Arya says as Jon looks at her in confusion, “I’m going back to the castle, I’ll check on the others. Find Sansa.”

At her name, Jon jolts. And Arya knows. She knows what has passed between them. It takes a lot of sorting in her brain, but they’re  _ not  _ siblings. She keeps telling it to herself in hopes that it will make it better. (And if Arya is being honest it is much preferable to the alternative, his aunt, Daenerys Targaryen). But Jon’s face now is one that shows romantic love, and not brotherly affection, it’s obvious to her and she fears it may become obvious to others. She thinks she saw Gendry dawn the same look earlier that night. 

Before Jon can speak Arya interrupts him again. 

“Sansa is fine Jon. She will be fine. Bran needs you here, I’ll go find her. We’ll all be together soon but we must do our duty now. You understand?” Arya says with all the conviction she can muster. 

Jon deflates. His shoulders sag. And Arya knows she has won. He gives her a slight nod and returns his attention to Bran. Arya is already slipping away silently. 

She calls over her shoulder, “I’ll be back soon.”   


The journey back is quick, without incident. The castle though. The destruction is devastating. Absolutely horrific. There are bodies everywhere strewn carelessly, without ceremony. There are survivors somehow, dozens of people milling about and picking through the wreckage. But no organization to it, nobody calling out instructions. Arya’s gut clenches as she makes her way through the rubble. 

As she moves further and further and finds nobody doing, well, anything. She feels bile rising in her throat. Sansa should be out here by now, she  _ would  _ be out here if she could. And if she couldn’t… well. 

Finally, Arya makes her way to the Great Hall and she nearly stumbles at the sight of the doors ripped off. 

No. 

It is the only thought that races through her head. It can’t be. They can’t have been attacked, no. Not Sansa, not like this. 

Arya stumbles through the door in a daze and she sees only more devastation. Only more people dead. But there are maybe twenty some people standing, standing about as if at a loss.

Arya’s eyes zero in on Tyrion Lannister. He is bloodied, a gash on his forehead and a large cut down his arm. At the same time his head turns up and finds her twelve feet across from him. The expression on her face must be enough because he looks horrorstuck. All of them do, and she takes in the others. Varys is there, looking ghostly pale. And Gilly. She looks terrified and tremors slightly, two young children cling to her dresses. She vaguely realizes Tyrion is holding a letter. 

“Lady Arya,” Tyrion’s voice trembles and he can’t meet her eye. 

“Where is my sister?” Arya’s voice isn’t more than a croak but it is harsh and demanding all the same. 

The mood that washes over the room crackles with something dangerous. And Arya knows. She  _ knows.  _ And yet she can’t do anything to prepare herself. 

“Lady Sansa, she, along with Gilly and Missandei, was leading a group to safety after we were attacked,” Tyrion says and wrings his hands, letter still there, “Gilly got the children there but realized her companions weren’t with them. When the wights all died she came back, assuming that they had come back to help the rest. But…”

Tyrion trails off and it enrages her. Arya’s voice shakes with rage. 

“But what? Tyrion?”

“They weren’t here,” Tyrion sighs, drawing his hand to pinch his nose, “And we can’t find them anywhere. Not their bodies either. It made no sense. But then I found this letter in the hall where they were last seen…”

Arya moves unconsciously, striding forward and ripping the letter from Tyrion’s hand which is outstretched. 

The letter is confusingly addressed to both Jon and Daenerys. She scans the rest and sucks in a great breath as she reads the final lines. 

Cersei Lannister has taken them. Has taken Sansa and Missandei captive. While the rest of them fought the dead, they allowed her to fall into Cersei’s clutches again. Everything that has happened before is coming to pass again. Stupid, stupid. They should’ve known, they should’ve seen it coming, had them somewhere safer. Arya feels ill. Cersei has Sansa, or she will soon enough. It can’t be possible. 

Arya’s mind spins. Everything of the last several hours seems to hit her at once. She is winded, feeling like she got punched in the stomach. Cersei’s signature spins in front of her on the parchment. 

And then. Arya collapses, succumbing to the dark. 

**Author's Note:**

> Oof...I've been in a bit of a writing slump since finishing my WIP. I've been writing a few different things but nothing has been coming together and I finally finished this. I need to give some credit though...there are a few fanvids I've been revisiting that have been helping to spark my creativity in this slump. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fm1_g-wOtXk  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zBwaaEPXFgo  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0icAeLYK8hY&list=PLiZOzSXr_7iXtLuQ1NZ-rie9VANK2sOga&index=112&t=0s
> 
> All three of these vids really capture the essence of angst that i feel season 8 gave us!
> 
> Now about the fic... I'll be totally honest that I have no clue what I'm doing here. With most of my fics I either have a clear idea or direction. With both my multi chapters I had everything at least broadly outlined. With oneshots I know a singular idea I want to explore. With this...Well. It's more of a musings project on things that could have happened to make season 8 better, which is why I skip or just point to things I have no interest in writing, it makes things easier but also infinitely more difficult (I'm a planner to my bones haha). I will say that I actually do in general enjoy the first three eps of season 8, even the last three aren't awful but so much MORE could've been done so that's kinda where this stems from. 
> 
> Sansa being kidnapped by Cersei was a missed opportunity imo (there was so much evidence pointing towards it dammit!), i know not everyone is a fan of the idea and I get it totally but it just would've been...perfect haha. And her taking Missandei here as well is my own twist on canon. Cersei taking that which is dearest to both Jon and Daenerys, what can go wrong? So with that I leave you. As usual, no clue when the next installment of this will come as this took me forever to write omfg. But I love your support and look forward to your comments! Thank you!


End file.
